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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29327046">blood on the pavement</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/smalltalk/pseuds/smalltalk'>smalltalk</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Haikyuu!!</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>M/M, Professional Racing, Strippers &amp; Strip Clubs, kind of???</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 10:48:19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,519</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29327046</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/smalltalk/pseuds/smalltalk</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Hinata flies, and Tobio follows.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Hinata Shouyou/Kageyama Tobio</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>20</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>blood on the pavement</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hello ! A few notes:<br/>(1) this is fantasy mixed with some real rules and details about stock car and street racing, but mostly fantasy<br/>(2) timing isn’t too important, but i imagine this to be in the early/mid-2000s<br/>(3) Karasuno Racing uses a custom built 2-door Ford Mustang, Tobio’s personal car is a matte black Corvette C6</p><p>this will just be a fun lil multi chapter work ! srry for typos</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Tobio doesn’t make it a habit, frequenting places like these. The ones surrounded by seedy alleyways, down streets lit up in multi-colored chrome, oozing all of the sounds and smells of sex and vice.</p><p>So when Tobio, in a black hoodie tugged over his head, sinks into a booth at the back of Palace with his gaze low, he tells himself that it’s just this once. He had found himself wide awake in bed at one AM, still restless after a run. Still frustrated after placing in the bottom half of the day’s qualifying race. </p><p>So, logically, this is the only thing that can calm his nerves. But he doesn’t make it a habit, because it would be a bad one.</p><p>Bathed in <em>violet red blue</em> light are three poles on top of a platform walkway. There’s already a crowd below- male and female alike, squirming against each other in drunken furvor and clamoring with dollar bills in outstretched hands. </p><p>Tobio has his dark eyes locked onto where the last dancer is walking out to join the two already on stage. He stands in sharp contrast to theit hard lines and firm muscles- athletic and lean, coquettish and over-confident. Glowing brown eyes peak over a sheer lace mask, the suggestion of  a smirk just hiding beneath it. Already, a few brave hands reach out with dollar bills, skimming his calves and brushing his ankles. But he pays no mind to them, tucking a thumb beneath his microscopic black shorts and snapping the elastic playfully against his skin. He walks around the pole once, twice, and swings down to his knees to observe the crowd at eye level.</p><p>Anyone else would miss the way Tobio leans forward just centimeters, eyes dilating in anticipation.</p><p>The DJ, cutting through the music, announces the <em>Phoenix</em>. Cliche, childish, and aside from the birds-of-paradise mop of hair atop the dancer’s head, the name is unsexy, to Kageyama, but his expectations are instantly exceeded the moment the man starts to move. </p><p>On all fours, he crawls in Tobio’s direction across the platform with an arch in his back and a sly look in his eyes, crooking his finger over, asking- no, <em>daring</em> someone to come closer. To close the distance between them. It’s some twenty feet and a crowd of Saturday-night drunks, but it feels like miles zero down into milimeteres when Tobio fixes his eyes on that gaze. Even though he sits far enough from the crowd, he’s close enough to see the beads of sweat rolling down smooth skin under the hot lights, the hair sticking to his forehead as he whips his head around. </p><p>The Phoenix swings up onto the pole, moving his body with a control that makes it look easy. Unraveling with the momentum, his legs extend out into a split as he sinks onto the floor. Then, pulling himself up into a squat, he grinds against the pole, with shameless hands running over his body, just edging over his stomach, chest, collarbone. He’s wearing a little black top, but so sheer and cropped just above his navel, it does nothing to hide what’s underneath. The move drives the crowd absolutely mad, and his eyes light up like he’s grinning, </p><p>Tobio freezes in his seat, unable to look away from the feeling that the look is pointed at him. Because the Phoenix is dancing like it’s for Tobio, and for Tobio only. </p><p>It’s just the man’s job, he knows this. But with one look, an avalanche drops from Tobio’s chest where nerves and fear used to be. They’re replaced with an aching hunger to feel skin against his hands, with his tongue, to whisper in someone’s ear all of the dirty fantasies he keeps under lock and key in his mind. Locked away until nights like these, where Tobio lets every imagined scene play out in his mind, restless to touch without fear of being burned. </p><p>When the song ends, the Phoenix leaves with a wink, the edge of his tongue barely tracing his lips as he exits the stage. </p><p>Anyone else would call it an obsession, the way that Tobio’s eyes follow his every move, but it’s not a word Tobio takes lightly. </p><p>Tobio takes one last look, finishes his drink- now diluted with melted iced- and leaves. He breaks speed limits down every street on the way home. In bed, he writhes against the sheets like a teenager, panting into the pillows, even though there’s no one around to hear him. </p><p>It’s a method of coping with pre-race nerves, the same way that going on cold midnight runs along the Californian coastline is. </p><p>It’s not a habit. Not yet. Although, if it was, it would be a hard one to break.</p><p> </p><p>❧</p><p> </p><p>In his dreams, a Corvette speeds down an empty desert highway under an endless midnight sky. Going <em>80 90 100</em> miles per hour until the only thing visible in the rear view mirror are clouds of dust and smoke.</p><p>There’s a flicker and then a burst of <em>white</em>-<em>hot</em> light that causes the car to reach an abrupt stop, screeching against the pavement without his feet ever touching the breaks. The desert is still empty, but he swears that he sees a streak of red flash in and out of his peripheral, laughter echoing in his ear.</p><p>The car starts again, driving faster this time, hunting for that flare of red. Trying to touch the horizon line, like it might disappear if he’s not fast enough. </p><p> </p><p>❧</p><p> </p><p>Tobio remembers in the morning that there’s nothing to worry about. </p><p>He’s been the cause of some of the biggest upsets of racing history, winning tournaments and stealing titles from veterans left and right. There isn’t even a casual fanatic who doesn’t know the name Tobio Kageyama. Slightly egotistical, and completely set on victory once in the driver’s seat- there are few who don’t fear racing him. </p><p>Though, Daichi never fails to remind him of his shortcomings. He runs the crew like he owns it, while Coach Ukai is out for in meetings. To be honest, Daichi scares Tobio more than Ukai- and they both know it. </p><p>Daichi taps his hand against the window of the Ford Mustang, prompting Tobio to move one gloved hand from the steering wheel to roll it down. He lifts the visor from his helmet and looks up expectantly. </p><p>“I know you’re disappointed in how you qualified yesterday-“ Daichi says. </p><p>“It’s going to take me half the race to climb up from eighth.” Tobio grinds through his teeth. </p><p>“It won’t.” Daichi shakes his head, expecting that answer. “You know what we built this car for- slow and steady acceleration, okay? Trust us, trust the car, you’ll be back in top three by the end.”</p><p>“You’re sure Tsukishima didn’t mess with the engine just to spite me, right?” Tobio mutters, just loud enough to be heard. Tsukishima, who had been making last minute checks with said engine, slams the hood down. </p><p>“If I wanted to spite you, I’d simply steal the engine. I could make an easy fortune.” Tsukishima says without missing a beat, but not without Sugawara walking over to place a well-meaning smack against the back of his head. </p><p>“No tricks today, okay?” Daichi warns the both of them, but he focuses his attention on Tobio. “Nothing we haven't gone over in practice. You just need to place, if you want to qualify for Honolulu. I know you’re desperate as ever for first-“ He leans down to clap his hand against the back of Tobio’s helmet, smiling at him ominously. “-But today’s not the time to experiment.”</p><p>“Tobio would rather crash his car than lose to Tooru Oikawa.” Tanaka snickers from behind the car, while Nishinoya continues to bark orders about the tire pressure at him. </p><p>“He already did.” Tsukishima snorts. “And his Highness was seconds behind him anyway.” </p><p>“Kei...” Yamaguchi groans from the tire on the right. It’s still a sensitive topic, Tobio finding out that <em>King of the Circuit</em> is more of a backhanded compliment, a critique against his aggressive driving style and relentless thirst for winning.</p><p>Tobio’s about to bite back at him with some snarky reply, when the frown on Daichi’s face reminds him of the time where... <em>Well</em>. That time where Tobio pretty much <span class="u">did</span>  total his car. It was a scramble to get the Ford repaired in only forty-eight hours for the next race, and they had done it, but no one on the #10 Karasuno Racing crew was happy about the all-nighter. </p><p>“You’ll get your chance for payback.” Daichi interrupts the memory. “But right now, every single crew on this track is your opponent, too.”</p><p>“...Fine.” Tobio resigns stubbornly. The <em>yourself included</em> goes unspoken. “But you all know, I race to win-“</p><p>“<em>We know!</em>” The entire crew groans.</p><p>“And by focusing on placing, we will get our chance to win.” Daichi reminds him. <em>He’s on a team now</em>. Tobio turns his head from him, nodding sullenly. </p><p>“Good talk. <em>Now let’s race</em>!”</p><p>They cheer, and even Tsukishima gives a lackluster grunt. </p><p>Tobio flips his visor back down, and they run through the checklist. Testing the motor again, he licks his lips to the sound of the its hum. It’s velvety, menacing, and he can already tell that it’s perfect for the track they’re on today.</p><p>Tsukishima may be a shitty guy, but he’s a damn good engineer. He knocks on Tobio’s window, mouthing soundlessly <em>Don’t fuck up</em>. Tobio rolls his eyes, though Tsukishima can’t see them, and revs the engine in retaliation. He’s pulled away from the exchange when a voice flickers into his earpiece. </p><p>“Testing- <em>ah, no Asahi, I’m talking to Kageyama- </em>It’s Sugawara.” Sugawara says. Tobio spots him in his rear view mirror adjusting his headpiece. “How’s the sound?”</p><p>“A little close.” Sugawara fiddles with the mic again. </p><p>“How about now?” Sugawara’s voice comes in so clear, he might as well be riding shotgun.</p><p>“Perfect.” </p><p>Sugawara flashes Tobio a grin and two thumbs up, and starts running through the specs of the race. </p><p>“The last turn. Don’t forget- it’s not as sharp as you think it’ll be. Don’t get the timing off.”</p><p>“Got it.” </p><p>“And…” Sugawara says with caution. “Don’t let anyone bait you.”</p><p>Tobio grunts back in acknowledgement, but makes no promises. A whistle blows, and he’s off to line up.</p><p>In his peripheral, he registers in on the flagger to the right. Inhaling deeply and adjusting his grip on the wheel and the stick, Tobio feels his body and mind meld together with the vehicle. The scent of leather upholstery, rubber burning on pavement, petrol and smoke is enough to overwhelm anyone, but not Tobio.</p><p>He waits for the signal to start, eyes dilated and focused on nothing except the road in front of him. Over the sound of revving engines, the crowd roars.</p><p>The flag swings down. </p><p>Like a trigger, with his foot immediately slamming the gas pedal, Tobio leaves them all in the dust. </p><p> </p><p>❧</p><p> </p><p>For as long as Tobio can remember-</p><p>(Balancing toy Hot Wheels between toddler hands, racing against the dog down suburban streets in a plastic truck, riding shotgun once his gangly legs were long enough to hit the floor of the car. Being asked <em>what do you wanna be when you’re older?</em>, and always having the same answer: <em>the Fastest</em>.)</p><p>-this is everything he has ever wanted. </p><p>A 1996 Honda Civic Si in silver, once a decade old hand-me-down-slash-graduation-gift from his father, now retired and sitting in storage at his parents’ garage. The same garage he’d spend late nights to early mornings in, customizing it with parts scrapped from junkyards and internet auctions. It didn’t look the part, but with a couple of modifications and a new paint job, he and that car set out to make themselves known.</p><p>Tobio learned to follow the sounds, so it wasn’t hard to find where. </p><p>Throngs of people would crowd intersections in empty streets, where the roar of custom import car engines, and the shriek of tires against the pavement filled the air. Late nights at university were filled with the smell of petrol fueling his lungs, sending blood pumping through his veins on overdrive. </p><p>Tobio learned to watch from the sidelines, memorizing every move and every mod that veterans would make, before he ran. Because once he’d made is mark as one of L.A.’s fastest in just a little civic, there wasn’t a cop he couldn’t outrun, or a cop who didn’t want him in handcuffs.</p><p>It all paid off, because from the sidelines, someone had been watching him, too. </p><p>Senior year of university- it was the first time he’d ever heard the name <em>Karasuno</em>, followed by the first time he’d ever felt the rush of racing on a paved track, in a custom built vehicle that wasn’t just barely holding itself together, and once he got a taste of the <em>professional</em> scene? </p><p>Well…the rest is history. </p><p> </p><p>❧</p><p> </p><p><br/>
“Congratulations, Kageyama.” Sugawara somehow audibly grins, and he can already hear the cheers of the rest of the crew filtering in as he crosses the finish line. </p><p>Of course, he places- in second, only seconds behind an obnoxious white and teal Toyota. He was a little early on the turn Sugawara had warned him about, and it cost him a few places that he spent the last dozen or so laps climbing back up again.</p><p>It’s good enough. For now.</p><p>Pulling up to the crew, Tobio yanks off his helmet, unzipping at the collar of his racing suit in futile effort to cool down. As he climbs out of the steaming vehicle, the team falls into him in a mass of post-race adrenaline.</p><p>“We’re going to Honolulu, baby!” Tanaka hollers, slapping Tobio enthusiastically on the behind. </p><p>“Ow, what the <em>fuck</em>-“</p><p>“Do you know what that <em>means</em>?” Tanaka ignores him, slinging an arm around his shoulder. </p><p>“Should I?” Tobio is too afraid to ask, still wincing at the sharp pain on his left ass cheek. </p><p>“It means-“ Nishinoya sighs at him like he’s a lost cause. “Beach weather and bikinis, Kageyama.”</p><p>“Don’t they know we live in Los Angeles?” Sugawara asks.</p><p>“I’m pretty sure they don’t live in any proximity to reality.” Tsukishima confirms. </p><p>“Girls and import models in <em>bikinis</em> waiting for me-“ </p><p>“And me-“ Tanaka chirps.</p><p>“-To lotion their backs with SPF so they can take photos on top of this sweet, sweet car-“ Nishinoya drags a single gloved hand along the hood of the car. “That’s when we go in for the kill…”</p><p>“Please don’t touch it like that.” Tobio and Tsukishima say in unison. Daichi and Sugawara drag them away by the collars before they can get another hand on the vehicle.</p><p>The winning cars are all parked in the main lot for a photo and for the ceremony. Tobio does his best to smile, but it mostly comes off as a grimace, because Oikawa’s gripping his shoulder like he’s trying to bruise it. </p><p>“Right on my tail always, eh? I was surprised to see you in my rear view when you did so poorly yesterday, but-” Oikawa pauses to flash his signature smile for the TV crew. “-Aren’t you tired of the chase?”</p><p>“It’s not you I’m chasing.” Tobio shrugs Oikawa’s grip off the moment the camera is fixated on someone else. “I’ll be winning in Honolulu.”</p><p>“You’ll try harder this time.” Oikawa winks. “Won’t you?”Tobio wants to wipe that smug look off his face forever. </p><p> </p><p>❧</p><p> </p><p>“You wanted to see me, Coach?” Tobio stands in the tiny office overlooking Karasuno’s garage. Glancing up from his monitor, Ukai motions for him to take a seat.</p><p>“I was watching the footage from today. Great job picking yourself up from eighth, it was no easy feat.” Ukai points towards the video on his monitor, as a black Ford Mustang embellished in loud, orange stickers edges past three other vehicles in a matter of seconds.</p><p>“The car was perfect for that circuit.” Tobio says with a tinge of disappointment. “I know I didn’t have to, but, I could’ve gotten first.”</p><p>Ukai just shakes his head, reaching across the desk for his ash tray. </p><p>“Oikawa’s been racing these tracks far longer than you have, so I wouldn’t worry too much about it. That’s why I called you here, to talk about the Honolulu Cup-“ He pauses to light a cigarette. “I have bad news, good news, and better news. What do you wanna hear first?”</p><p>“…The bad news?” Tobio answers hesitantly. </p><p>“The bad news is that we can’t actually-“ Ukai scratches his head sheepishly. “<em>Afford</em> to go to Hawaii. We’re still recouping the costs from repairs after your last little accident-“ Tobio winces. “And on top of rent and salaries, we’ve got travel and transportation for the team and the vehicle. We’re short quite a bit of cash-“</p><p>Ukai pulls up a spreadsheet on the monitor, with a number  highlighted in red. </p><p>It’s <em>six</em> digits long. </p><p>“Even after today’s winnings, we’ve dug ourselves into a bit of a hole.”</p><p>Tobio’s face immediately contorts into a mix of pain and utter desolation at the thought that he can’t race, but Ukai quickly waves his hand at him. It sends a cloud of smoke his way. </p><p>“<em>Good</em> news.” He coughs. </p><p>“The good news,” Ukai reassures him. “Is that the Honolulu circuit is brand new. Naturally, we’ll have to change up our specs to account for the extra traction- which I’m sure you’re not used to- but everyone will be on equal and unknown territory.”</p><p>Tobio visibly brightens. He’s always known that Seijoh Racing ruled Southern California’s professional scene, with some drivers on their roster competing professionally before Tobio had even gotten a license. The idea that they’d be on a more leveled playing field is a relief, if not a dangerous invitation for Tobio to do the experimenting his entire body itches to do. </p><p>“There’s better news than that?” Tobio raises an eyebrow. “Is someone…donating money to the team?”</p><p>“That’s rich, but no. The better news is why I couldn’t make it today.” Ukai grins in a way that makes Tobio squirm nervously in his seat. “Your old, out-of-touch coach just negotiated for you a promotional contract with several international magazines and events.”</p><p>“Oh." Tobio swallows. "Coach-“ </p><p>“Don’t thank me yet.” Ukai waves a hand. “We’ll need to clean your image up a bit to make you more-“</p><p>He eyes Tobio’s face up and down- perpetual glare, stiff smile and all.</p><p>“-Approachable. But it seems like the general public has taken an interest to you. More importantly, so have many, deep-pocketed sponsors. They just want to see how much the public <em>likes</em> you before they slap another god-awful sticker onto that car.” </p><p>“But Coach, I-“ Tobio stammers.</p><p>“So if all goes well, we’ll be covered for Hawaii and any other race that a win will take you afterwards. The best part?” Ukai ignores his protests. “They want to partner you up with an import model. I’ve already given them the go-ahead to pick someone. We’ll meet in a few days to discuss the first shoot.”</p><p>“<em>Coach</em>. Don’t you think I should be focusing on practice, and not-“ Tobio pauses and then grimaces in horror. </p><p>“Wait…you want me paired with a <em>what</em>?!“</p><p><br/>
❧</p><p><br/>
The press event the next day passes by in a flurry of flashing lights, giant TV cameras, and more uncomfortable posing in front of his vehicle for the first magazine that Ukai had arranged he interview for. Something about how it'd be good to get his name out there, cement his presence as a rising star in the industry. What he probably means is that people need to think Tobio <em>isn't</em> actually a massive asshole, at least not on the circuit.</p><p>It’s standard procedure- they want to know how he’s feeling about the next race, what he’ll do if he wins, who he’s most afraid of. Tobio mostly tells the truth- he’s confident he’ll win, he’ll win the next race, and he isn’t afraid of anyone. Once they realize that they’re not going to get much else out of him, the interviewer thanks him and leaves. </p><p>Breathing a sigh of relief, Tobio looks around the lot to find that Daichi and Ukai are probably still held up in the main tent with the press. Sugawara and Asahi are friendly as always, speaking to some other team’s crew members, and Tsukishima and Yamaguchi are nowhere to be found. Probably off looking for food. </p><p>Stomach grumbling, he wishes he had snuck off with them. </p><p>Tobio’s already itching to hop inside the car and get out of there. He’s in full uniform save for his helmet, for the purpose of photos, but the heat and humidity are starting to make everything cling uncomfortably close to his skin. </p><p>Takeda is waiting in the parking lot with the truck, so it’s not like everyone will be without a ride, if he leaves first. If he's lucky, he can slip away without too much fanfare. Except, there's nothing subtle about escaping on a branded sports car, and they’re not exactly cleared for pedestrian driving, either-</p><p>“Hey, Kageyama.” Tanaka comes up behind him. “What was with that? Didn’t you see how pretty she was?” </p><p>“Who?” Tobio frowns. Was Tanaka always standing there?</p><p>“The interviewer!” Tanaka nudges his shoulder. “Eh, Noya?”</p><p>“Totally my type.” Nishinoya nods solemnly. </p><p>“You say that about every woman who’s taller than you- <em>ow</em>.” Tobio says, trying to recount what her name even was. All he really noticed was the giant microphone shoved in his face every few seconds. “She was tall, I guess? I wasn’t really paying attention.”</p><p>“No shit!” Nishinoya laughs, tossing them both cold water bottles from the cooler beside the car. “You looked like you were gonna kill someone, all <em>win win win</em>-“</p><p>It’s not a bad impression, but Tobio wrinkles his nose, turning his head away to take a swig of water. They know he isn’t good anything that requires that he be outside the vehicle and without a helmet on. If looks could kill, Tobio wouldn’t have much of a team at all.</p><p>“We’re never gonna make it onto the cover of <em>Tōge Monthly</em>.” Tanaka sighs, leaning against the car. “Unless you do something about the sour face you’re always making.” </p><p>“So I’ve been told.” Tobio blows a piece of hair from his eye. </p><p>“You know, maybe I could give you some pointers- <em>oh</em>.”</p><p>“Oh?” Nishinoya tilts his head, following in the direction that Tanaka’s now facing. “Oh. <em>Oh</em>.”</p><p>Under the tent diagonal from them are a swarm of girls in matching uniforms: mini skirts and cropped shirts branded with the season’s sports drink sponsor’s logo.   The black Toyota behind them is covered in acid green stickers, <em>Accelerade</em> in death metal font written across the hood.</p><p>Tanaka and Nishinoya are gone the moment Tobio turns back to them, suddenly lost in the gaggle of fans and the makeshift line of men waiting to purchase from the girls’ merch table. </p><p>Tobio resolves to remain stationed beside his vehicle while suddenly pretending to look very interested in the ground. If any fans come up to ask for a photo with him, they're probably immediately deterred by the way he's muttering his plan of escape under his breath.</p><p>“Kageyama!” Sugawara calls, returning with Azumane in tow.</p><p>“No more interviews for today?” Azumane asks.</p><p>“There was just the one.” Tobio grunts, brushing a nonexistent spot of dirt from his leg. “It went fine.”</p><p>“Fine? You don’t remember a thing you said, do you.” Sugawara teases, and Tobio doesn’t object. “And- hmmm, Ryu and Noya left you too, huh?”</p><p>“Kiyoko is here today.” Azumane laughs. “They must be asking for a photo.”</p><p>“Or her number.” Sugawara adds. </p><p>“Or her hand in marriage.” Tobio snorts. </p><p>They’d tried it before. The other girls usually form a human wall around Kiyoko to deter the usual suspects, but Nishinoya and Tanaka are more persistent (and more harmless) than most.  Sure enough, the two of them have cornered a woman dressed with glasses and a tracksuit with the same garish, green branding as the girls. </p><p>“Say, Asahi.” Sugawara points a subtle finger at one of the models at the merch booth. “Who’s that one?”</p><p>“Hmm, Asuka, I think?” Azumane nods towards the black haired girl in question. ”She models for Seijoh Racing, doesn’t she?”</p><p>“No, no-“ Sugawara shakes his head, pointing again towards someone behind the crowd, handling the register. “That one.”</p><p>They’re selling energy drinks, calendars, mugs, bumper stickers, everything you’d find at any souvenir shop- but sexed up with the appeal of girls who model with custom cars and usually go-go dance on the side. At the front of it all is a man, no- boy? He’s ringing up an “I LIKE MY WOMEN LOUD, BUT MY CARS LOUDER” tee shirt for someone twice his size. </p><p>“I’m not sure.” Azumane rubs his goatee, squinting. “Don’t think I’ve ever met a male import model before. Maybe he’s someone’s kid brother?”</p><p>“Poor kid, then.” Sugawara snorts. “But I’ll be damned, doesn’t his hair match our colors perfectly? <em>That</em> would be cover worthy, right Tobio?”</p><p>Tobio’s suddenly frozen in place, staring at the way the cash register boy in a black cap smiles at the next person in line. Tobio squints, wondering why he reminds him so much of someone he knows.</p><p> </p><p>❧</p><p> </p><p>It’s always simultaneously the best and worst possible idea whenever Daichi says he’s footing the bill. </p><p>Best, because it means they can gorge themselves in excess on whatever it is- food, drinks…those are pretty much the only two things they do as a team (other than race). It’s the worst, because it usually ends in Tobio waking up with a raging hangover the next morning. He’s had his fair share of nights spent tossing back shots, but even for a heavyweight like himself, keeping up with Tanaka is nearly impossible. </p><p>Tobio thinks this- the headache like a pickaxe pounding through his skull- is what they might mean when his competitiveness will definitely lead to his own self destruction. </p><p>(“A toast, to endless victory!” He vaguely remembers himself shouting, sloshing himself with a bottle of vodka as Sugawara and Azumane try to pull him off of the table.)</p><p>“<em>Fuck</em>.” Tobio groans, as a glare of sunlight filtering in through the only crevice between blackout curtains hits him square in the eye. He rolls over into the pillow, slapping at his bedside table for the Advil he always keeps handy.</p><p>Instead, he hits his cell phone, which rattles so violently it almost teeters off the edge. </p><p>“‘Fuck’s sake.” He mutters, rubbing at one eye and squinting at the screen.</p><p><em>11:35 AM</em> it reads.</p><p>
  <em>(4) Missed Calls from Coach Ukai</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Reminder: Meeting at 12:00 PM</em>
</p><p>“Fuck! Fuckfuckfuck<em>fuck</em>.” He hisses, shooting up in bed and immediately flipping the phone open. “Coach-“</p><p>“I’m giving you twenty minutes!” Ukai barks at him. “Twenty minutes to get your ass over here. Or I’m giving Tsukishima your car. Clear?”</p><p>Ukai hangs up. </p><p>“Fuck-“ Tobio groans again, on autopilot, before falling back against the pillow and clutching his head in pain. </p><p>Against the will of every cell in his body, Tobio rolls out of bed, showers, inhales a gallon of water, and races along every road in his Nissan C6 to make it to the Karasuno garage at 11:54 AM the dot. As he pulls into the lot, he absentmindedly wishes that he’d timed the whole thing. </p><p><br/>
❧</p><p> </p><p>It isn’t like Tobio doesn’t know what to expect. Every team that’s serious about winning knows that racing isn’t all that counts. There are the sponsors, of course, and then there are the girls. </p><p>From the ones he’s met, Tobio knows that import models are as pretty as they are loud. They’re bubbly little things with long hair, thin bodies, and big boobs. Most of them dance on the side, which he’ll never admit he knows because he’s seen some on the racing sidelines and at the club. </p><p>Sex <em>sells</em>- Tobio knows this. It sells magazines and energy drinks and car insurance and automotive teams to the masses.</p><p>And, if that’s what Coach Ukai thinks is necessary for ragtag Karasuno Racing to get real public recognition, to get <em>money</em> they need to compete, then so be it. Tobio will do just about anything to stay on these roads just a moment longer.</p><p><br/>
❧</p><p> </p><p>Except- maybe this.</p><p>When he steps into Ukai’s office, someone is already seated across from his coach at the small coffee table in the corner. He looks up at Tobio and he freezes. </p><p>He’s sort of scrappy, probably a hundred pounds soaking wet, drowning in a dingy sweatsuit, with orange hair that doesn’t look like it’s been combed for days. He’s objectively pretty, Tobio will give hem that. But only because he’s looking at Tobio with gigantic brown eyes and pouty lips and flushed cheeks coloring pale skin like he’s just climbed out of the shower, and-</p><p>What?</p><p>“Kageyama! You’re here. Sorry, we began without you, but we were just going over the minor details. This is Shoyo Hinata, he’ll be working with us for the campaign.”</p><p>Immediately, the man stands- a whopping five-foot-three- and shoots his hand out towards Tobio.</p><p>“It’s good to meet you!” The man says a little too loudly, smiling all sunny and bashful. It hurts Tobio’s bloodshot eyes. “I’m a big fan, so I’m excited to being working with Karasuno!”</p><p>Tobio shakes, because he’s not rude, but half heartedly, because he’s still trying to place where…</p><p>“Have we met?” Tobio takes a seat. Really- he swears he’s seen him before, it’s on the tip of his tongue. </p><p>“Hmm?” He tilts his head, brows furrowing. “I don’t think  we have, I would’ve remembered it.”</p><p>Weird… okay.</p><p>“Still, isn’t it strange?” Tobio turns to Ukai. “To have a <em>male</em> import model?”</p><p>“Hey-“ Hinata protests. </p><p>“Well, if I’m being honest, it was my mistake. I only requested for <em>small</em> and <em>team colors</em>.” Ukai bellows with laughter. “And they delivered! I just didn’t think there were any male import models in the equation.”</p><p>“I’m actually one of the firsts.” Hinata boasts. </p><p>“Well, we’ve always done the unexpected.” Ukai grins. “It’ll be unconventional, but I think it’ll be good. I took a look at Shoyo’s portfolio- he’s versatile. Plus, it’s got more of a unisex appeal and-“</p><p>Ukai motions excitedly towards the mop of orange hair atop Hinata’s head. </p><p>“Doesn’t he match our colors, perfectly? It’ll be like we’ve got our own mascot-“</p><p>“No.” Tobio crosses his arms. </p><p>“No?” Ukai and Hinata say in unison. </p><p>Tobio gives Ukai a pained look, <em>are you serious? </em>Groundbreaking or not, it doesn’t change the fact that this Shoyo Hinata doesn’t look like he knows how to get himself dressed in the morning, let alone wield any charisma, or <em>sex appeal</em>, like a weapon in front of a camera. </p><p>Not that Tobio can, either, but he knows that he looks right inside that car, like it was molded for him. Hinata,  no matter if he’s sitting in the front seat or sprawled across the hood, would look like he’s playing pretend.</p><p>“I don’t care that you’re a guy.” Tobio says. “But I want this team- <em>I</em> want to be taken seriously.” </p><p>“You don’t think I can do it.” Hinata says, and he’s looking directly into Tobio’s eyes in a way that makes him seize up suddenly. “You’re not taking <em>me</em> seriously.”</p><p>“Kageyama-“ Ukai warns.</p><p>“It’s not just that I don’t think you can.” Tobio rolls his eyes. “I won’t let you. That car is-“ <em>his pride, his armor</em>, “-everything. It’s not a little dress-up prop.”</p><p>Hinata smiles slightly, like Kageyama’s told him a funny little inside joke. </p><p>“Look, I didn’t think I’d get casted either, so I don’t expect you to believe in me right away.” Hinata says. “I’ll make you a deal. I’ll do the first few shoots and appearances- and if your mind isn’t changed by then- I’ll do it for free-“</p><p>“Free?” Ukai perks up at the word. “Well, if you <em>insist</em>-“</p><p>“And if I change my mind?” Tobio knows that he absolutely won’t. </p><p>“You’ll pay me the original rates we agreed on.” Hinata smirks. “But, I get to drive your car.”</p><p>“<em>It’s a deal</em>.” Ukai says quickly, and before Tobio can protest, Hinata’s shaking his hand, which that means Ukai’s <em>definitely</em> just sold his livelihood away to some stranger. There’s no way- no chance in <em>hell</em> that he’s letting that kid even touch the steering wheel. </p><p>Hinata licks his lips hungrily, and then flashes Tobio a grin. </p><p>“<em>I’ll see you on the road</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>❧</p><p> </p><p>Tobio doesn’t stay to watch Coach Ukai write off Hinata’s contract. </p><p>As he approaches his car in the parking lot, he notices something he’d missed in his rush to commute. </p><p>Funny, as it’s <em>impossible</em> to miss. </p><p>A blood-orange Nissan 3707. It’s loud, not something he’d ever be caught dead driving in, but it’s awfully well kept. Tobio wonders what kind of import model is spending their salary on and zipping down highways in something like <em>this</em>. </p><p>Tobio nods at it appreciatively, stopping himself just before his hand instinctively reaches out to touch. </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>idk how to make this show as multi chaptered  sorry lolll</p></blockquote></div></div>
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